True Crime
by Petra Todd
Summary: Bestselling writer Sherlock Holmes is coming to town, giving bookshop owner Molly Hooper one chance to meet the reclusive man she's always admired.


_**This fic is part of the "Fifty Reasons to Have Sex" Sherlolly fest. The prompt I chose was 'Your one chance w/ a celebrity." This will be a two-chapter fic.**_

_**This is AU, but it has a few parallels to some details in His Last Vow.**_

_**Thanks to Emcee and dietplainlite for the beta backup 3**_

* * *

The edge of the true crime shelf dug into her lower back, forcing Molly to arch away from the ledge into the man kneeling before her. Her fingers slid along the polished wood behind her, grasping for purchase on the slippery bookshelves. Her legs shook unsteadily as strong hands moved between them and pushed them apart decisively. A sigh escaped her as his fingertips and lips explored the bare skin of her inner thighs. Her hands scrabbled along the slick surfaces, and her head swam, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the night.

Molly watched dizzily as the man lifted his head, the nearly-black curls across his forehead brushing the front of her knickers. His oddly aristocratic face, the one she'd studied so often on the photo on the backflap on his books, was sculpted by the moonlight streaming in from the window on her left. The logical portion of her mind chided Molly for forgetting to shut the blinds when she'd closed up the shop. She smiled, amused that she could think of something so small when she stood almost nude in the arms of a man she would most likely never see again after this night.

"Something amusing?" He murmured, as one hand traveled north to trace the line of her red knickers where hip met thigh. "Not tired of holding on soon, are you?"

She sucked in her belly in anticipation as his tongue slid along the elastic edge and his hands urged her thighs further apart.

"Maybe a little tired. But-" She shuddered as a fingertip dipped under the fabric to tease the damp flesh beneath. She was keenly aware of the shelf's sharp edge stabbing into her palms as she gripped it. Her hands tightened, and her head dropped as he tugged aside the satin pants to expose the wetness of her cunt. "You're still dressed. It isn't fair."

"Yes." He smiled crookedly, and his cool eyes shone. "It isn't." He lightly slapped the inside of her thigh, and Molly spread wider for him. The man knelt deeper into her, his patrician nose nuzzling the curls. She watched in fascination as his tongue extended from his mouth...and then retreated back between his lips. His eyes rolled up to her, and he pulled back a fraction.

"Is this what you dreamed of?"

"Yes. Almost. Yes." She swallowed, and squirmed beneath his hard gaze. She never realized how much more naked one felt when the person they were being intimate with wasn't; he was clad impeccably in a black suit, no less. His fingers stroked her sex, one finger slipping into the folds to find her clit. She bucked into his hand, and her head fell back, her loose hair pooling on the wood behind her.

"Almost. Ah," he mused. "You want me to fuck you on the floor right here, don't you? I was considering the sofa over near the tables, but you want me to take you first on the carpet." Molly moaned, rocking into his callused palm. The shelf groaned with her, and she thanked the stars it was anchored against the back wall.

"I…._yes._" Her hand fell from the shelf and threaded in his curls, caressing and begging. Her belly surged with heat, need rippling upward from her core until she was ready to burst. Her thigh muscles ached but she arched harder into his rough hand, fucking herself on him until her belly was tightening and she was gasping with the approach of her climax.

Until he yanked his hand away before she reached her peak, and she cried out in frustration.

"You didn't ask…and your hand came down from the shelves. You've lost our wager." He grinned and Molly's eyes burned hotly down at him, realizing she was stroking his scalp and pressing his face closer to her pussy.

"Oh, shit. Sod it!" Her gaze dropped to the floor. "Yes, I want that. Is that some sort of cliché for bookshop owners?"

Her left hand joined the other in his hair, digging her nails in deep until his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned into her touch. _So he does have sensitive spots and pleasure points_, she thought gratefully. She'd begun to wonder if she was only some sort of clinical experiment for his vast brain to toy with. Something to stave off his infamous boredom. Hadn't she read something like that in a tabloid paper ages ago? She swirled her fingers against his scalp and whispered, her dimples deepening, "Tell me- did the others want the same thing?"

His eyes snapped open and she had the sense she had irritated him. "Irrelevant. What you want is what matters. So ask for it." He hoisted her leg over his shoulder and nudged aside her knickers again, brushing his fingers against her nether lips. He tilted his head and then she felt the teasing tip of his tongue on her swelling clit.

She shuddered again and bit her lip, concentrating to form the words. "I want you to fuck me on the floor. I want to- I want to look up and see the books all around when you're inside me. Will you?"

His huge hands slid under her arse and pulled her tight to his face, letting him suck her clit fully between his teeth and tongue. Her hands fell back to the shelves, holding on desperately while he worked her into incoherence, his hands caressing her arse while she rode his face. She barely felt the shelf's edge pressing into her back with his brilliant mouth licking and drawing shivers from her. The wetness of his mouth and her cunt soaked her thighs and his cheeks and before long, the hoarse cries of her first orgasm of the night echoed through the empty shop.

Her leg slipped off his shoulder to land gracelessly on the floor, and he grabbed her thighs to steady her.

She laughed unevenly, and he gazed up at her, his eyes bright and knowing and wicked. Still trembling from her climax, Molly's voice shook.

"You never answered me. Sherlock, will you?"

* * *

There was nothing conventional about his books, or his colorful reputation, so it came as something as a shock when Sherlock Holmes replied to her request in the most old-fashioned of ways.

"A letter? And you're sure it's from him?" Molly dropped the stack of romance novels she'd been sorting on the counter.

"The return address has got his name handwritten on it." Mike examined the envelope. "Could be faked, but who would bother? Open it. If it's a no, at least it's a personal one and not a form letter. We could frame it, hang it in the café."

Her assistant manager gave her a sunny smile as he passed her the letter, but Molly knew he was as worried as she was about the future of the bookshop. It was impossible to compete with online ordering when it came to variety and profit, but Hooper & Co. could offer the personal touch valued in a small town like theirs. When she took over the family business from her grieving mother, they'd been a heartbeat away from closing their doors permanently.

Four years on, they were beginning to turn a small profit, thanks in part to the coffee area Molly had created within the bookshop. It'd been a hassle, going through the inspections and dealing with zoning and regulation issues, but in the end, it was worth it. Students from the nearby uni would browse and then settle onto one of the worn old comfortable sofas Molly had acquired, or sit at a table to order espresso. The café's presence shifted the vibe of the shop, and customers no longer simply selected a book and hurried out.

Molly's only problem now was getting new customers into the shop. And that's where the next step in her plan came in. After a well-known author of urban fantasy novels visited Hooper & Co. for an autograph signing one afternoon in May, the café sold out of food entirely as customers snacked on muffins and cappuccinos while they waited. The bookshop's total sales doubled that week, and hunched over her spreadsheet, Molly grinned excitedly, realizing that her bookshop could offer something that no online service could provide- a chance to meet the author.

Molly set about contacting publishers to arrange appearances when they had a new book coming out. She'd thought that the managers working with newer writers, the less famous ones anyway, would jump at the chance to increase their book sales, but so far, only a few local authors had shown any interest. None of the more notable companies and managers she had contacted about appearances had bothered responding personally. A few sent form e-mails notifying her they weren't adding any new appearance dates to the calendar this year, but that they would add her to the list of possibles for the future. She'd become disheartened with the whole process and it was only in a fit of wishful thinking and wine-sodden madness that she'd written to Sherlock Holmes at all.

If moderately successful romance novelists couldn't make time to stop in Middlebury, why on earth would the most recognizable writer of crime nonfiction? Holmes was a bestseller, and had won legions of admirers with his eccentricity and dashing style. Ten years ago, in his midtwenties and the brat prince of the publishing world, he'd dazzled the British chat show circuit with his brand of snarky charm. His cheekbones, a mop of reddish-black curls, and his trademark Belstaff coat drew a dramatic image as memorable as the serial killers he discussed with the vapid presenters. Molly recalled the dry humor he showed off when expounding on Jack the Ripper and the absurdity of the various candidates who had been proposed as the killer.

"Fantastically _convenient_ that it's always a famous painter or royalty or another well-known murderer," he'd remarked, his electric blue-green eyes gleaming. "Rather like how everyone's always claiming to have been reincarnated from Marie Antoinette or Napoleon or a Nobel Prize winner. When really, the most successful killers are the people who make it a point to be painfully ordinary and simple in their thinking. I've often thought television personalities would make excellent murderers for that reason."

The presenter, an unconvincingly blond older man, chuckled insincerely and steered Sherlock back to promoting his book. But Molly never forgot the passion or the raw intelligence displayed by the young man or the fascination of his ever-changing eyes. After watching him with her friends at uni that morning, she went straight off to the nearest shop to pick up his new book- and all the ones that came before it.

But the memory of that appearance would have to last her, as it was the last television one Sherlock Holmes ever made. After a three year break, he then continued to publish books with studious regularity every fourteen to eighteen months, but he became, for all intents and purposes, a ghost. He was said to make occasional appearances at private readings and parties, and a contact in the business swore he'd seen Holmes at bookshop readings up north, but he permitted no photography or filming in any session.

She remembered a few years back a brief spate of tabloid stories about him: an ex-lover claiming he had some sort of secret sex lair in the mountains where he entertained adoring female fans. The woman claimed he and his endless string of one-night-stands engaged in what she called "sexperiments." Molly had giggled over at it the time, and then felt ashamed for even skimming the articles in the shop. Interest in the scandal died when it was clear Holmes wasn't going to speak out to deny or confirm anything. He remained firm on his stance to give no official public interviews ever, and it appeared that the fearless young genius had indeed become a hermit.

* * *

Molly turned white and dropped the sheet of paper. The noise in her shop seemed unbearably loud, with the ringing of the chimes over the front door sounding like a church bell. She shook her head and picked the letter off the floor, smoothing out the folds. Mike chewed on his thumb nail and stared at her.

"Is it that bad?"

"Am I imagining things? Have I completely lost my mind?" She thrust the letter at her assistant manager.

_Molly Hooper,_

_Like most amateur Ripperologists, your assessments rely too much on the flawed profiles provided by authors other than myself. Sugden's study is the best of a lazy lot, admittedly. However your grasp of the anatomical case files suggests a not-terrible understanding of the possibilities (or lack thereof) of medical personnel being involved in the case. I agree the sensational aspects are overemphasized and counterproductive, and your observation of the cuts on Eddowes's kidneys was somewhat interesting. Yes, I have retained my research copies of the extended access files I was given by the British Museum and the Whitechapel Historical Society, but no, I will not be publishing those at some point in the future. Obviously._

_I'll be in Middlebury next Thursday, arriving around 530. There will be a reading from 6 to 620, and Q&A for as long as I can tolerate, which is generally under 10 minutes and strictly regarding the topic of the books. No book signings. Make that clear to people before I arrive. And no recordings of any kind. _

_Sherlock Holmes_

"No book signings, no autographs…they won't like that," Mike mumbled. "Odd he's telling _us_ when he's turning up without giving us a say…Still, this is fantastic! You did it, Molly. What did you say to him?"

"I, um, I can't quite remember," she said. "The usual fluff." She winced slightly, recalling her horror the next morning when she realized that while pissed, she'd sent Sherlock Holmes a 2000-word email full of adoration, scientific criticism and supplication. Perhaps she could apologize for the lengthy tangent about Gilles de Rais when she met Holmes in person? She blamed the cabernet. Molly flushed, caught between mortification and sheer, terrified joy.

"He's coming. Oh my god, _he's coming."_

* * *

"What do you mean, Middlebury? Out in the middle of arse-nowhere? This wasn't in any of the communications you cleared with me about today." John plunked himself down in the comfortable red chair he'd claimed as his own on his first visit to the cottage, five years before. He'd had to travel out so often since then to babysit his star client that his wife Mary joked he should just move in. He crossed his arms and frowned at the man seated opposite him, whose attention was fixed on the television.

"No_, no_, he's sleeping with the woman from the laundry service, it's obvious. Look at his trousers, the starched cuffs. His girlfriend is an idiot to believe him." He slumped into his chair in disgust, burying his hands into the deep pockets of his maroon dressing gown.

"Did I drive four hours to watch Jeremy Kyle with you? _Sherlock_. Why the hell are you going to Middlebury? And how did you make the arrangements? I thought you hated phoning people these days."

"I didn't phone. I responded by letter. Isn't that more polite? My mother says e-mail lacks the personal touch. I think she has a good point." Sherlock smiled winningly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"_Ha_." John's eyes narrowed. "What are you up to? Is this research? Because the last time you used people for research, it was a disaster." His forehead crinkled. "Is this bookshop run by a murderer or something?"

"God, I _wish_. No." Sherlock picked up his violin and lazily plucked at the strings.

"But you thought I would book you somewhere else if you let me make the decision as usual. And you're probably right since this place in Middlebury is small time, and I've got people throwing serious money at us to get you to turn up at major events. Which you keep refusing anyway." John studied the other man for a moment. Sherlock stared back blandly, and John broke into a grin. "Right, I'm coming with you."

A high-pitched squeak emitted from the instrument in Sherlock's hands. His elegant fingers froze on the strings, and he glared at John. "You are not my keeper. I hired you and I can fire you."

"You can. But no other manager will put up with your shit for such an average percentage, and is willing to deal with the publishers and the press so completely, and you know it. I'm a bargain, and _you_ are a prick." John smirked. "So after this jaunt you'll be on track to finish the new book by the end of the year."

"Yep."

John hesitated. "With the chapters on the heroin trade and the crime families…has there-"

"No."

His face tensed. "I wasn't-"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and set the violin aside. "Yes, you were. _No,_ spending months up to my eyeballs researching methods of exotic preparation and varieties of heroin hasn't tempted me. I've been clean almost eight years. Do give me a little credit for self-control."

"I'm sorry." John rubbed the back of his head. "Right, that was bloody awkward. Sorry, I had a long night and my head's not where it should be."

"Hmm yes, congratulations by the way. Getting up repeatedly during the night to use the loo is common during pregnancy, as I understand it. When is she due?"

"What- you could tell that Mary is expecting just by looking at _me_? You've got to explain that one day, how you do it."

"You learn to deduce all sorts of information when studying criminal evidence is your life, John. To deconstruct crime, first you have to identify the pieces and construct it."

"Save that bollocks for the Q&A." John laughed. "I'm your friend, not your fan."

"You're my _manager." _But the corner of Sherlock's mouth tugged upward unmistakably.

"Whatever. Get cleaned up. If we leave within an hour, we should be on time for this thing. I want to see what all the fuss is about in Middlebury. Must be something special there to get Sherlock Holmes to drag himself out of his hideaway."

* * *

**_Chapter Two...back to Middlebury, and how they meet.  
_**


End file.
